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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355310">Geraskier x "Battle Cries" by The Amazing Devil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxx/pseuds/Fluxx'>Fluxx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The SS 200, 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Heartbreak, Inspired by Music, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Music, Post 1x06, The Amazing Devil, Tumblr Prompt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:21:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxx/pseuds/Fluxx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>And as I walk away I know I’ve been through the wars,<br/>But that creaking you hear in my bones is not pain, it’s applause</em>
  </p>
</blockquote>-<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QttUYOF3fNk">Battle Cries</a> by The Amazing Devil<p>
  <em>
    <a href="https://constantfluxx.tumblr.com/post/612444675145662464/geraskier-battle-cries-by-the-amazing-devil">Prompt response for The SS 200, 2020</a>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <a href="https://constantfluxx.tumblr.com/post/612358473204842496/the-evening-earworm-tune-cruise-the-ss-200">Submit a prompt for The Tune Cruise: The SS 200!</a>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The SS 200, 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679812</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Geraskier x "Battle Cries" by The Amazing Devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time stood still.</p>
<p>Jaskier had been up mountainsides before, but he’d never ventured this high up. Never had much reason to, really. The view was breathtaking, with all the world stretched out before him like rolling sea of vibrant treetops. Other peaks circled in the distance, framing a gloriously golden setting sun whose warm rays blanketed him against the crisp chill. It was a picturesque scene, one many a traveler would have died just to glimpse. He was certain he’d remember it all in perfect, precise detail for the rest of his life.</p>
<p>Just… not for any of <em>those</em> reasons.</p>
<p>He couldn’t have repeated the words if asked. On some level, he of course recognized what was happening and felt their gravity, but the individual syllables were lost in a cacophonous shroud that swept passed and through him. Even the view began to numb, the edges of a face framed by snow and punctuated by stars falling into a gentle blur.</p>
<p>
  <em>Why is the sun so bright?</em>
</p>
<p>He blinked, squinting towards it. Its light ceased to warm, letting the thin air slice through his journey-worn clothes and leaving deep cuts he wasn’t certain would ever heal. In the wake of the furious ringing in his ears, a deep cold had set in his chest, and the longer he stood there, staring at a sun that would bring him no comfort, the further it spread.</p>
<p>More words spilled out into the air. Some part of him knew his lips had formed them. Something about a story. He liked writing. Honestly, he couldn’t say for sure how good he was, but good enough, he felt. And it was important work. People needed to hear what happened. They wouldn’t if he didn’t write it down, give them something to retell.</p>
<p>But maybe not all stories needed telling.</p>
<p>Neither of them had moved, but when he looked back at the man before him a great distance had settled nonetheless. The stars were gone, having long since dipped back behind the snow. He’d have liked to see them again. Perhaps one day he would. Perhaps different ones.</p>
<p>Clarity descended upon him. From here, one could see just how big and vast the world really was. There were plenty of stars shining all across it. Plenty of stories. Some, he bet, that <em>wanted</em> to be told.</p>
<p>“See you around, Geralt.”</p>
<p>The cloud was too dark. Too tumultuous.</p>
<p>Geralt clenched his eyes tight and grit his teeth.</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s too loud.</em>
</p>
<p>He’d heard mountaintops were supposed to be peaceful. How could they be when the sun was this bright, the air this sharp? How was anyone supposed to <em>think</em> when there was so much rustling? Like skittering ants around their crushed mound, his every thought, feeling, and memory swarmed all around him. He had to get rid of them. He had to focus. He had to <em>think</em>.</p>
<p>The sun was starting to set, taking with it those impossibly bright rays. As the surrounding peaks pierced its edge, cool shadows began stretching across the forest, laying out along the vast valley snaking its way through the mountains. Woodland creatures sought out their hovels, the onset of night welcoming its first stars and casting its first slumbers. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with gentle, refreshing air, and let it slowly seep back out through his nostrils.</p>
<p>
  <em>Quiet at last.</em>
</p>
<p>Finally, he opened his eyes, adding their gleam to the night. All the world laid still, patiently awaiting his next move. Up here, there were no paths, no lines to follow. He could turn in any direction he wanted, and all of them would eventually lead him to the base of the mountain. The only difference was, of course, what side of the mountain he landed on, and that part was entirely for him to decide.</p>
<p>He <em>hated</em> decisions.</p>
<p>Much easier to be directed. A sword was simple, dependable, true. It followed the swing of his arm, and it would come down wherever he aimed it - he need only be aimed, and destruction would be sure to follow. Destruction that… didn’t always contain itself to where he’d hoped. For quite some time now, he’d assumed the problem was the hoping - after all, disappointment only came in the wake of dashed dreams. But still, there were casualties, and he couldn’t confidently say they were any fewer than they’d ever been.</p>
<p>Perhaps the problem was the aiming?</p>
<p>His eyes fell to his hand. He was good at swinging. Of course he was. He’d spent most of his life perfecting the art, making sure every swing struck its mark and delivered its due. It got the jobs done. And maybe getting the jobs done was enough, but maybe it wasn’t… right? Maybe he wasn’t doing the right jobs, or in the right way?</p>
<p>He <em>hated</em> doubting.</p>
<p>Doubting meant failing before you’d even tried. Once upon a time, he’d doubted he could become a Witcher, and do all the things that Witchers could do. One need only look at him now to see how <em>that</em> turned out, though it admittedly took him a while to get there. The good thing about all that was he now knew what to do about doubt. How to get <em>rid</em> of it. How to stomp it out and make sure it never came crawling back.</p>
<p>You had to <em>do</em> it, of course.</p>
<p>He’d do it by aiming. By <em>deciding</em>. Or, rather, by recognizing all the things he’d already decided, whether he’d intended to or not. After all this time, looking back upon every avoidance, it grew painfully evident how inaction was, itself, an action. Indecision, itself, a decision. Looking ahead now, he knew where Destiny pointed him… and also that <em>he</em> got to pick his path there.</p>
<p>He surveyed the pathless ground around him and sighed. “We have to find her,” he announced, resolve at last set.</p>
<p>
  <em>It’s peaceful, way up here in the mountaintops.</em>
</p>
<p>He frowned. “Jaskier?” he called, turning to look behind him.</p>
<p>He was alone.</p>
<p>His eye fell to the now-vacant rocks upon which the bard once stood.</p>
<p>To the ants he’d thrown to the bitter wind.</p>
<p>He looked around. No paths were <em>too many</em> paths. “Jaskier?!” he yelled.</p>
<p>Still, the night slept.</p>
<p>He had to pick. Had to <em>decide</em>.</p>
<p>He didn’t know if he made the right one. A part of him recognized he’d never know. But, as his feet carried him swiftly back through the mountaintop’s low brush, he knew also that not knowing didn’t make the decision any less his. Now, finally, looking it in the eye, he could at least own it, recognize it.</p>
<p><em>Aim</em> it.</p>
<p>Simple truths served as his guide: that Jaskier could only go down from here, that Jaskier knew one particular way to go… that, as night solidified its hold and began to beckon its monsters, Jaskier’s chances looked grim.</p>
<p>“JASKIER?!”</p>
<p>His heart raced as he ran, but he knew it wasn’t from the exertion. One too many memories haunted his searching eyes. One too many casualties.</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t let there be one more.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There CAN’T be one more.</em>
</p>
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